Angelic Insanity (Creepypasta)
by RabidFlyingSquirrel
Summary: CREEPYPASTA FIC. Alida is just your average...no. She's not average at all. There are strange, murderous things inside her head, not to mention her...peculiar anatomy. This is fine (if inconvenient) until people start getting hurt and enemies rise; but a few strangers change EVERYTHING: her memories, her morals, her heart...(JEFF THE KILLER, BEN DROWNED, EYELESS JACK, SLENDER, ETC)
1. 1-Abnormal

Let me lay it out for you: I'm not normal.

In fact, one might call me...freakishly strange.

You couldn't tell from my appearance-to the world, I'm but you're average 5-foot-9, red-headed teenage girl. But in the privacy of my own room- sometimes my own mind- I am not who I seem to be.

For instance.

Occasionally, a violent thought will flash through my head, and I'll push it away- like when I'm cutting an apple and I picture myself stabbing my nearby friends through the heart with the knife. I can see the horrified looks on their faces; they would never see it coming. Of course, when these things happen, I try to push them out of my mind, questioning my sanity. It's not like I have a reason for hurting them...

But you see, it's not just that. I get so... _angry_ sometimes- at the slightest of provocations. I seethe in rage until I writhe on the floor and claw at my skin. If you were to ask why I have so many posters on my walls, I would most certainly _not_ tell you that it's because of all the knife marks under them.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you're thinking. _Of course she's not normal. She's a psycho. Lock her up before she hurts somebody._

But there's more.

I mentioned before that no one is aware of my... _peculiarities_. I can't let anyone find out; they would throw me in a rubber room, or worse. Once, when I was twelve, I tried to tell my adoptive sister about these things, and she looked at me like I belonged in a size eight straight-jacket, so I slapped an uncharacteristically stupid smile on my face and yelled 'April fools'.

I do hate keeping secrets from my family- even if they're not my flesh and blood, they did take me in and they are all I've got. I would like to tell them, but I'm just so afraid...

...so scared of falling that I won't try to fly.

Oh, that's not a metaphor, by the way. I have wings.

I sat Indian-style on my bed, allowing my copper-hued hair to fall gently into my lap Cautiously extending my metallic violet wings to their full length- each was easily five feet across- I plucked a teal-tinted feather, casually watching it harden into a jagged blade. Creepy.

Intrigued, I slowly dragged the colorful blade across the palm of my hand, watching the resulting blood trickle down my forearm. Cocking my head, I marveled the contrast of the bright crimson on my pale skin.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted my weirdness. Startled, I flung the blade away and it lodged precariously into my wall.

"Alida," called a tired, middle-aged voice, "are you decent?"

"No," I squeaked, painfully crunching my wings back into a folding position and slipping my purple vest on over them. As I heard my mother grow restless at the door, I frantically wiped the blood from my arm with my conveniently red tie and concealed my damaged hand behind my back.

As if on cue, my mother opened my door to see me grinning idiotically with one hand behind me and the other innocently draped over my crossed legs.

Her eyes narrowed. "What have you done?"

The woman is _good_.

As if her suspicion was unfounded, I shrugged. "MM-hmm..."

"What are you hiding?"

My ocean-blue eyes flit to the wall behind her, where currently, a shiny, bloody, feather knife was wedged. I shrugged again, nonchalantly wiggling my hand into a black marching glove behind me.

"No alcohol?"

"Mm-mm."

"Guys?"

"Mm-mm."

"X-rated video games?"

"Mm-mm..." I repeated, guiltily eyeing my closet- in which several of those were stored.

Right before my eyes, her stern features slowly softened, and I knew the interrogation was over; I would live to see another day. Sheesh. It's not like I've ever had 2/3 of those things in my room. But then again, I guess my sister is another story...

Unable to suppress a sigh of relief, I raised up my unmarred left hand to catch the blur of purple she tossed my way. Its identity astonished and infuriated me.

"My fedora!" I cried. I never let this thing out of my sight! "Where did you get this?!"

Obviously stressed, my mother massaged her temples. "I rescued it from Xavier."

"Oh." My eyes reduced to slits.

 _Xavier_. _That_ putrid being.

By the way, I have a little brother. I try to avoid acknowledging his existence whenever possible.

Murmuring unnecessary reassurances to my beloved (yet admittedly inanimate) hat, I placed it upon its copper throne, vowing vengeance. That maniacal little wretch will atone for his crimes, if its the last thing I ever-!

"Lee! Chill!" commanded my mother. "Your hat is fine!"

I slowly lowered my pocket knife, grumbling to myself, "He _contaminated_ her with his greasy little fingers. His mere survival _mocks_ her."

"You know," remarked my mother exhaustedly, "Sometimes I wonder if you love that hat more than you love your own brother."

"So do I," I muttered, "So do I."

" _Oh, Ms. Believer, my pretty sleeper, your twisted mind's like snow on the road; your shaking shoulders prove that it's colder inside your head than the winter of dead..._ "

I rolled over with a groan, shutting off the alarm. Man, I should have left it on. That's my favorite Twenty One Pilots song...

Immersed in these thoughts, I shifted to the left and consequently tumbled to the floor.

Ow.

Moaning, I pushed myself up rather clumsily, pausing when I noticed my disheveled sister Clarissa in the doorway. Her golden hair was tousled, her face swollen with fatigue. I would have found this image quite humorous, if not for my own undoubtedly ragged appearance.

"Gee sis," she slurred sleepily, "you look like you just rolled right out of bed..."

"Hilarious," I mumbled, voice laced with sarcasm. "I am practically _oozing_ with mirth."

"How very odd," she mocked. She was always jealous of my sophisticated speech.

"I can talk like you too," I shot back, disgusted with my syntax. _I, too, can speak this way. I can also mimic_ your _diction._

I will admit, my speech patterns can in some ways be likened to my sister's. But I'm not _that_ simple. Gracious.

My dear Clarissa chuckled and turned away, presumably leaving to prepare herself for school (and she did have her work cut out for her). I knew it had come time for me to do the same, so I peeled myself off the hardwood floor and stumbled over to my closet.

Patting my stash of precious video games, I turned to the rack on which my clothing hung- every single outfit was the exact same, consisting of a long-sleeved white dress shirt, a purple button-up vest, a red tie, and black slacks. Don't judge me- it's my style, okay?

I quickly dressed, delicately cramming my wings under the white shirt. (Enjoy the oxymoron.) It took me a solid half hour to tame my ridiculously thick mane of hair, which I then crowned with- what else?- my splendidly fashionable fedora.

I stood before my full-length mirror, admiring the deep, warm, violet of both the fedora and the vest. Were my wings out, they would match, though they would shine with a blue-greenish glimmer.

My gaze rested on the reflection of my denim-colored eyes. Nostalgia flooded my senses as I recalled my parents explaining to my young self that I was adopted; I had thought about how dissimilar my speech patterns were to theirs, and how my hair was not brown like theirs or golden like Clarissa's, and how my eyes...

They are so different from my family's welcoming, honey-flecked green eyes, which make mine look so cold, dark, and foreboding. Even as my father lay in his coffin, those eyes were so much warmer and full of life than mine ever were...

I shuddered at the recollection, scolding my own brain for retrieving such a memory and returning my attention to my idle reflection.

Whereupon I physically jumped.

I blinked and held out my twitching hand to the mirror. For a moment, I had thought...

Well, it's implausible.

It only seemed like my eyes had been _gold_ for an instant there. I must be seeing things again.

Well, either that or...

No matter what the explanation for _that_ incident is, one thing is certain.

I. Am not.

Normal.

 **I apologize for any formatting errors. I copied this from my wattpad account, and wattpad's formatting** ** _sucks._**


	2. 2-High School

You should already expect this to be disturbing.

Feet heavy with reluctance, I compelled myself to follow Clarissa into the nightmarish madhouse otherwise known as high school.

Forcibly pushing myself through the jungle of caffeine-fueled students, I began making my way towards my locker at an infuriatingly slow pace. I valiantly persisted in my struggle until I literally ran into one of my friends.

"M'James," I casually greeted, tipping my hat.

"Alida," he answered, rubbing his head (which had just been slammed against my own rather painfully). "What are you doing swimming against the current?"

I scoffed. "This is not a current." I gestured widely to the hyper, screaming adolescents running rabidly around us. "This, my James, is chaos."

"You're chaos."

"Your mom is chaos."

James looked at me, his mien a satisfying mixture of disgust and horror. (Is it bad that he wears this expression towards me on a daily basis?)

I chuckled, then cursed as someone's weight forcefully jostled into me, sending me sprawling. Before I was able to regain my footing, my left boot made hostile contact with a particularly slippery piece of paper, and I landed on my back. Hard.

My ears rang from the impact, and I released a groan. After taking a brief moment to fathom how deeply I despised life, I began to slowly push myself up from the cheap, imitation marble.

I glanced at James, who seemed inexplicably astounded. Before I could question this, my eyes lowered to where I had just been lying.

That fall was apparently... a bit heavier than I had originally accounted for.

Bewildered, I knelt beside the disturbingly large crater my body had made. The stone was cracked and crumbling, and an enormous indentation was visible. How could I have possibly caused that much damage!? I wasn't even injured! Logically, I should've been broken- not the floor!

Not that I'm complaining...

"Well," stated James, almost objectively, "You seem to have destroyed the floor."

I scoffed again and watched his eyebrows gradually rise as his curiosity grew to outweigh his caustic nature. "How did you-"

"I didn't do anything!"

"You massacred innocent fake marble!"

"That's not my fault!"

"It kind of is."

Exasperated, I inhaled sharply and kicked the nearest locker out of frustration.

It dented.

Then caved.

"Oh my," murmured James, "You do know that destruction of public property is a potential felony, right?"

I was too concerned with reverently staring at the crushed locker to retaliate to his words.

Engulfed in thought, I was oblivious to the ringing of the bell, and James nudged me. "Come on, Clark, let's get to class before anyone realizes that you're Superman," he teased.

In a daze, I unsuccessfully attempted to dispel all the questions forming in my mind and headed to my first class.

Holy cats.

James was right. It wasn't the floor, it was me. What did I do? And the locker...

I examined my hands as the teacher droned on about reflexive pronouns or something. What are these hands capable of? What am I capable of?

What am I?

Still stunned from my earlier experience, I was immersed in thought as my feet carried me to the cafeteria- so immersed, in fact, that I slammed head-first into the principal's only child.

"Oh, sorry Jaina," I gasped, collecting her scattered belongings as she gathered her bearings. "Gosh. Sorry."

"I'm alright, I guess," she squeaked hesitantly in her obnoxiously high-pitched voice. Preoccupied with returning her billion-dollar outfit to its previous state of immaculateness, she failed to notice me offering her books and purse for several seconds. After this, she took them and carried herself off to class. Before I could do the same, a harsh, scornful voice stopped me dead in my tracks. "Alida."

I spun around artistically. "Why, hello, Principal Hall. May I help you?"

"You may not speak to my daughter ever again," she proposed, her dim hazel eyes narrowing at me. "She's above associating with people like you."

Though I feigned perplexity, I was well aware that this insufferable woman had despised me ever since our first meeting, at Clarissa's orientation. Thirteen at the time, I had made a rather unsavory and unfortunately audible comment about her and her daughter's almost-matching, fake, blonde hair.

Well, it was true.

"Whatsoever could you mean?" I drawled.

As her already distasteful frown deepened at my supposed confusion, she attempted mostly unsuccessfully to intimidate me with her iron glare. "Tell me, Alida, where were you this morning when the hallway was vandalized?"

I shrugged violently. "How should I know when the vandals struck?"

She rolled her eyes. "It would have been around 7:45 and :55."

"I was with James," I asserted honestly, "James Allen. Ask him yourself."

"I think I will."

"What of this mystery?" I taunted lightly as she turned around to carry out her interrogation. "Haven't you camera footage? Witnesses?"

Nearly visible hatred radiating around her, she hissed back, "The cameras in English Hall are down. And no one was paying enough attention to notice anything."

Broken security cameras? Well, that's convenient. A bit suspicious, maybe, but convenient all the same...

Lunchtime.

The time of day when, after several hours of grueling study, a group of miserable, suffering children gather together to try to force minuscule portions of synthetic meat down their throats.

My heart cannot contain its joy.

Sighing, I let my filth-laden tray hit the table with a clang and then proceeded to lower myself into a chair. My friend Kaos greeted me, pushing her white-blonde hair behind her ear and poking her fork into an unidentifiable green substance. Before I could say a word, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to discover its source.

I filled with disdain as my eyes landed upon a pale girl with shoulder-length auburn hair and putrid brown eyes that were filled with a despicable mixture of pity and hatred.

"Elizabeth," I directed at the trash bag, my tone daring.

"Alida," she shot back with equal ferocity. I watched her expression change, her thin lips upturning into a smirk. "I heard that the lockdown this morning was caused by some property damage near your locker. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

I felt an urge to plunge the spoon in my hand through her cold, black heart. I disregarded this.

"I heard that every football player on the team scored last Friday night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that," I mocked, allowing malice to fill my eyes, "would you?"

I heard Kaos choke on her food behind me.

Elizabeth's countenance filled with utter disgust. "I feel sorry for you."

"Oh? Do tell."

That sickly sweet smile came across her ugly little face again. I thought of how much better it would look if it was being slammed through the windshield of a car. "It must feel awful to know that you're so much of a freak that your own parents gave you away," she whined in faux sympathy, sap dripping from her sticky, syrupy voice.

I closed my eyes.

She isn't worth it. She isn't worth it. SHE ISN'T WORTH IT.

My eyes opened, and a genuine smile lit up my face. I looked at the pile of garbage in front of me, feeling rather placid. "The decision of my parents to give me up was their loss, Elizabeth. It is a shame almost as devastating as your parents' decision to keep you."

Entirely pacific, I turned around and stood with my tray. As I calmly walked away, Kaos trailing behind me, I basked in the glow of the insults Elizabeth and her worshipers hurled at my back, because I knew that I had won. I knew that her parents considered her a disappointment, that she was never as perfect as her older brother. I knew that she cried herself to sleep every night because of it.

"That tramp," began Kaos as we sat out of earshot of Elizabeth and her clique, "just got rek't."

I nodded, feeling refined and dignified in comparison to that little spawn of satan.

Though I had lost my appetite and despised everything on my tray anyway, I picked at the "food" in front of me simply out of ennui. Kaos penetrated the ensuing silence with a question: "Why does Elizabeth even have such a vendetta against you? I remember that you guys used to be friends."

"'Friends'," I repeated, stretching the word around in my mouth. "No, we weren't that. Maybe I thought so at the time, but I was young, and stupid."

"I can hardly imagine you being stupid, Alida," quipped Kaos. I brushed her comment aside with a simple smile.

"She decided to stop using me around four years ago," I mused, digging deep into my archives of memory for such an insignificant story. Where would I file such a thing? Under "Pollution", perhaps? "I am inclined to believe that the disturbance was caused by something as simple as a math test."

"A math test."

"Well, that was only the beginning, I suppose," I clarified mistily, tracing one finger along the accursed tray in front of me. "I stood up to her in the beginning, acting easily as detestable as she, you know. Of course, I began to comprehend the immorality of treating someone in such a way because of things one cannot control."

"And she did not," speculated my intelligent friend.

"Indeed. Her harassment seemed to intensify as mine ceased," I recalled. "She would set me up for her idiotic stunts, and I would take the blame like the peacemaker I was. I was forced into doing her homework for an eternity-"

"Ha! I knew she was no honors student," interjected Kaos.

"-she blackmailed, mocked, and threatened me. And as if that wasn't enough, she's got half the school shunning me for necrophilia."

"Oh," coughed Kaos, her face twisting intriguingly. "That's pleasant." Leaning forward, she began to twist her fork into the table like an incredibly slow power drill. "So what's the current situation?"

"Well," I began, folding my fingers, "I've had an epiphany."

"Naturally."

"It's alright for me to act disdainfully towards Elizabeth. She deserves it. So here we are: Neither of us are being 'bullied'." (What a disgustingly generic and overused term.) "She is despicable to me on a whim, and I am despicable in return because she has brought it upon herself."

Something seemed to spark in Kaos's above-average brain. "So you're like Karma."

"I... suppose?" I offered, not having made such a connection in the past.

A hole opened in the conversation, allowing the mildly irritating roar of crazed high school students to flood into the forefront of our minds. On a whim, I ingested a bit of what was allegedly some form of potato- a decision which I immediately regretted.

I glanced at Kaos, who seemed to be mapping some strategy out on the table in invisible fork strokes. I find her company quite pleasant, as it lends contrast to the primal dialogue anyone else has to offer. She is outstandingly bright, and I know she'll accomplish momentous things someday.

After lunch, I had band (in which a trumpet player accidentally blew up something important), which was followed by Chem II (in which James intentionally blew up something important). Then it was finally time to go home and indulge in Battlefront 2 while subjecting myself to the incessant torment of the sadistic seven-year-old with whom I am forced to abide...


	3. 3-Infernal Taco Puns

It's Saturday.

Nothing worthy of note has occurred since the explosions of yesterday, and today I'm meeting Clarissa, James, and Kaos for a late lunch at Taco Bell.

Ah, Taco Bell. I could write sonnets honoring Taco Bell.

Straightening my tie and entering the restaurant, I scanned the tables until my eyes locked with a pair of a much lighter blue- James's. He waved me over, and I swiftly advanced to the booth he and the girls sat in. As I slid into the empty space beside Kaos, I tipped my ever-present fedora in salutation, complete with an added, "M'people."

Mimicking my action, Kaos tipped the air above her head as if a hat brim were there. "M'Raziel."

"You all her by her last name?" inquired my golden-headed sibling.

"Sometimes," answered Kaos with a shrug. "She almost always calls me by mine."

"But you don't do that with us," Clarissa protested, ever eager to display her lack of a vocabulary. I mean, honestly. That sentence gave me cancer.

"Well," interjected James, responding for Kaos, "our last names aren't as cool as 'Kaos' or 'Raziel'."

Seemingly mulling over the proposed uncoolness of "West" and "Allen", Clarissa subconsciously toyed with a napkin in her tanned fingers, eventually conceding with a simple, "Meh."

"In any case, I'm going to get some food. I am absolutely ravenous," I announced, making haste towards the short waiting lines. My present company followed suit, albeit with some minor complaint on the part of James, who grumbled something along the lines of, "Tacos. That's all I ever eat."

Pft. Not my fault he works here.

Moments later, we were again seated; this time, we were equipped with several bags of food.

"So..." began Clarissa, casually sipping her mellow yellow, "How are things with your 'arch-nemesis'?"

In light of my inability to answer (as the overwhelming majority of a taco was in my mouth), Kaos stepped in, exploiting the situation for the usage of one of her terrible puns: "Looks like she doesn't want to tacobout it."

I stopped chewing for a few seconds to fix her with an expression that was intended to say, 'I'm not mad, just disappointed.' Instead of apologizing, she flashed me a cheesy grin and slapped her knee.

"You know, I think that if you spoke to Elizabeth, she might be willing to burrito hatchet."

As she slapped her knee again, I deepened my glare to reflect my contempt. Fortunately, before another imbecilic pun could be made, Clarissa intervened:

"I wouldn't try to bury that hatchet. I'd ax her up with it."

"If I were to confront said vile peasant," I mused, swallowing the cool-ranch dorito shell, "I would not do so under the circumstances of a ceasefire. I have previously wasted much of my time in that way."

"If Elizabeth's the peasant," proposed James coyly, "What does that make you? The king or something?"

"Most certainly not," I scoffed. "The Mayor of Can Town hates kings, and I would do naught to displease him."

James narrowed his eyes at my Homestuck reference and physically resisted the urge to hit me.

"In the terms of the Medieval Catholic Church, I think you'd be the executioner," suggested Kaos, "because you're psychotic."

Ha! She had no idea.

"Yes, yes," I murmured maniacally, my mien contorting into one that properly conveyed my insanity. Happening to look up at that precise moment, James dropped his fork and made that hilarious face again: the disturbed one.

"What would James be?" Clarissa asked, reaching a momentary ceasefire with her chalupa.

I mulled over this for approximately half of a second before snapping with my left hand and answering: "Jester."

James rolled his eyes, but eventually agreed. Honestly, the mere idea of him wearing the costume is enough to incapacitate me, even today.

"I would be the queen," Clarissa demanded, challenging anyone to disagree. No one did.

"And I would be the pope," concluded Kaos, "because... you know. It's my fault that all of Europe is in shambles. And I'm in charge."

"Why do you get to be in charge?"

"Because I'm the only one here who has ever actually been Catholic."

A compliant silence followed, in which I was spontaneously compelled to plunge the nearest fork into Kaos's eye- needless to say, I resisted the temptation. Even so, I couldn't help but smile at the fact that she would never see it coming. All within the confines of an instant, my mind played out her hypothetical reaction with great precision; unwillingly, I noted the subtle shadows the light would cast on her face as her head jerked backwards and the way that shock and horror might mingle into a single twinkle in her unharmed, pale blue eye.

Man, this is a good taco.

"How many of those things did you order?" Clarissa inquired, pointing at the taco I was viciously devouring.

I swallowed before responding, "I'm not at liberty to say."

Twenty-four.

"All you ever do is eat," complained my sister, "and you weigh like a hundred pounds!"

Though I said nothing, I hypothesized that both my light weight and my expansive appetite were products of a superhuman metabolism and an aerodynamic body. I knew that Clarissa would hardly understand that, even if I were to tell her. Besides, twenty four tacos are nothing.

"Clarissa!" scolded Kaos, "Her weight is nacho business!"

I groaned through my food.

"Yeah. She's jalapeno space," added James, exaggerating a wink to the point that it was amusing in an ironic sort of way.

"I'm glad you decided to chip in!" cackled Kaos.

"This is getting guacward," announced Clarissa.

"That's not even a decent pun!" I spat, exasperated from cringing so much.

"Are you kidding!? Just because they're a little cheesy, doesn't mean they aren't grate!"

"That grammar was atrocious," I hissed.

"They're getting kind of mild..."

"I think they're supreme."

"This is getting too personal. I demand that we salsa immediately."

"I'm too chunky to salsa!"

"I could turn on some music, just in queso..."

...

There are no words that can accurately voice the aggravation I felt in that precise moment.

"Remind me," I requested, narrowing my eyes at Kaos, "Why are we friends?"

"We both needed partners for PE," my relatably unpopular friend recounted.

Oh yeah.

"Those puns were pretty great," praised James, prompting Kaos to take my hat, place it on her own white-blonde hair, and remove it to bow like a true gentleman.

"I'm here all week," she quipped, returning the fedora to its rightful owner.

My sister only gasped. "You let her touch your hat?" she drawled, as if the mere implication of such was utterly inconceivable to her tiny, underused brain.

"Why yes," I jeered, "how observant of you."

"But you barely let me look at the thing!" she exclaimed. Her lack of a vocabulary seemed to call out to me for help, but alas, I was powerless to assist it.

"'The thing' to which you refer so indifferently has a name," I corrected, straightening it upon my head.

James literally spewed soda, causing little droplets of contaminated moisture to unpleasantly sprinkle mine and Kaos's faces "It does not," he challenged, as if daring me to correct him.

Blankly staring at his grin, I wiped my hand across my face and smeared the accumulated saliva soda onto his arm. He did not react to this whatsoever.

"Yes," I admitted, "it does. What of it?"

"Come on," coaxed James invitingly, "What is it?"

I sheltered my fedora defensively. "Khan...?"

While James and Clarissa practically died laughing (maybe that was wishful thinking), Kaos simply shook her head. Why did everyone underestimate the sentimental value of that hat?!

"I may not remember why, but I'm supposed to protect him," I insisted, cradling the indigo purple hat. "It's as if I made an oath, or something. And besides, it's awesome." This only served to fuel the duo's hysteria, so I ceased speaking altogether and resorted to dishing out dirty looks.

"You too are way too compatible," observed Kaos aloud, causing both James and Clarissa to halt mid-snort to stare at her. "W-well-" she stuttered, quickly realizing her folly, "I don't mean compatible as in compatible compatible, n-no, I mean, just compatible, not that you couldn't be compatible compatible if that's what you wanted, not that you would want that, but even i-if you did, that would be fine, not that you do, I mean-"

I abruptly ended her nervous, rambling run-on sentence with a swift kick under the table, for which she would later express her gratitude. James and Clarissa awkwardly scooted away from each other and proceeded to avoid a mutual glance for the remainder of the afternoon.

Clarissa and I walked home soon after that. Despite her attempts at small talk, my mind was elsewhere...

"Don't work so hard. Allow the wind to carry you instead."

"I- I can't do it!"

"Does she really have to learn, Mori? She is still so young..."

"You know she must." The voice was suddenly broken. Accusatory.

The accented voice sighed in concession. "You can do it, little dragon. You will love it."

"But I wish to go home!"

"We can't return," scolded the first voice. "We can never return. We discussed it, didn't we, angel?"

...

I woke with a start, my grogginess muddling my thoughts and erasing traces of whatever dream I'd been having. Grumbling something about wanting my home, I sank back into sleep before the minute turned.


	4. 4-Of Paint and Punishment

It was your average Tuesday morning: Xavier had eaten my English homework, my left eye was twitching, and I wasn't punctual to my first (and least favorite) class because James tripped me down the stairs. Currently, it was approximately 11:34 AM, and my excruciatingly monotonous economics teacher was just lulling me to sleep.

Without warning, my brief sojourn in the land of dreams was quite rudely and abruptly interrupted by a piercing scream. Half asleep and still disoriented, I flailed about in my seat as my primitive (or perhaps merely _ordinary)_ peers erupted into hysteria.

Gathering my bearings at last, I fought through the tempest of panicking students to the door and managed to squeeze myself out into the hallway. According to the conspicuous absence of any other bystanders, I was the only fool who thought it would be wise to run _towards_ the apparent danger, rather than away from. I was about to kick myself and reenter the jungle that my classroom had become when the source of the incessant screaming finally caught my gaze.

"Jaina?" I began, unable to help the small smile that followed. While the sight of the principal's pride and joy absolutely drenched in green paint was rather perplexing, it was also sort of humorous. Noting that she could neither see me from this angle nor hear me over her own wailing, I padded into her field of vision and shouted over her, "JAINA! CALM YOURSELF!"

At my command, her painfully shrill cries faded into melancholy whimpers. In an effort to appease her, I removed my vest and began the daunting task of wiping the viridescent paint off of her with it.

"What happened?" I inquired, my voice tainted with the gentle and soothing lilt of a lion tamer.

Jaina sniffled, lifting a quivering hand to push a mess of dripping, green hair out of her face. "I-I just opened my locker," she stuttered, "and this..." I saw the panic in her eyes surge at the memory, and within the span of a few moments, she resorted to wailing once more. How typical of the unintelligent to seek a solution that both failed to fix the issue and also served to inflict a migraine upon me.

I was still in the process of wiping down the blubbering teenager when her mother, Principal Hall, came barreling around the corner. Well, speaking of the unintelligent.

"JAINA!" she exclaimed, horror contorting her face into an even more ugly shape than its standard form of existence. "Who DID this to you?!"

Stepping back, I allowed Principal Hall to wrench my vest from my hands and continue my task, albeit less productively and systematically. Well, the woman was out for blood now. Rest in peace, whoever thought that targeting the pretty, popular, rich, and influential poster child of our school would be well-advised. Her mother treated her like the Queen of England, and I certainly did not envy the recipient of someone's as petty and unprofessional as Principal Hall's wrath.

"Alida," she snapped, only now seeming to notice my presence, "Get back to class!"

Wordlessly I transversed the meager distance to the economics classroom, tossing one final glance behind my shoulder at the mess in the hallway. Oh, and at the green paint, as well. Just as I crossed the threshold, an announcement crackled through the intercom, advising students to ignore any and all screaming that we may have heard. From that very moment, the day proceeded as if nothing abnormal had occurred.

That is, until I was called to the front office at approximately 1:15.

Awkwardly shuffling into the uncomfortably silent office, I sank into a distasteful luxury chair that completely disrupted the color coordination of the entire rest of the room. Despite the fact that this compelled me to commit suicide, I remained calm and patiently awaited my impending doom.

Logic would offer that I had naught to fear, due to my innocence, and I would counter with the point that Principal Hall is anything but logical. Her standing vendetta against me in combination with the events of that morning spelled out the grim possibility of my future behind metaphorical bars.

Not more than six minutes later, I was directed to Principal Hall's personal office (office inception). Before venturing to open the foreboding wooden door, I stared at it for a moment, at this Rubicon that I was being shoved across. Funny thing when your destiny _isn't_ in your own hands, when someone else is weaving the threads of your fate. As I eased that same, ominously heavy oaken door closed behind me, I felt as if I was sealing the chamber of my demise.

My, how gruesome I can be.

Drowning in an internal sea of dread, I turned to face the orchestrator of my doom. Demeanor grim, she gazed at me with eyes that somehow betrayed both her intense disgust with me as well as her malicious glee in having an opportunity to take me down at long last. "Alida Raziel," she acknowledged.

"Principal," I returned, my tone subdued.

"So," she began, clearly tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, "What do you think of my office?"

I eyed the drapes that dared me to speak and the chairs that foretold of my downfall, noting how even the ceiling seemed eager to intimidate me. Well, it's said that honestly is always the best policy, right? "It definitely has fewer medieval torture devices than its aura demands."

Her expression implied that she was unaware of my sincerity. Truthfully, my intentions were not snarky. I just enjoy the aesthetic of medieval torture devices. Stop laughing! I'm completely serious!

Disdain wrenching her (as I've mentioned) already unpleasant face, the Principal motioned for me to sit in one of those hideous armchairs. As I complied, she folded her hands and skipped the unpleasantries, delving directly into the topic at hand: "I know you're the one who's responsible for humiliating my daughter."

 _What?_ Hang on.

I cleared my throat, leaning forward in my chair ever so slightly. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb," she continued, peering down at me like I was vermin in need of extermination. "All of the evidence points to you."

"I do not possess the theatrical skill to play dumb," I started, suspicion contorting my passive expression into a glare. "And I would know what evidence you speak of, considering I had nothing to do with the escapade."

She rolled her murky brown eyes as if my request was the greatest of inconveniences. "First of all, you were late to your first class this morning, when the locker was supposedly rigged."

I scoffed. "I was tripped!"

Opting to ignore my defense, she continued: "You also didn't turn in an English assignment that was due in your class today, and _this,"_ she stressed as she retrieved a small bin from underneath her extravagant glass desk, "was found in Jaina's locker a few minutes ago."

The gears in my head whirred almost audibly as I examined the contents of the bin: it was a sad, crumpled, paint-flecked excuse for a paper that seemed to beg for its own demise; through the cheap, clear plastic, I could just barely make out bits of my immaculate handwriting still legible between bite marks and tears.

Yes, that was definitely my English assignment-it must have survived Xavier's onslaught after all.

"You aren't stupid, Alida," Principal Hall finalized, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. She was satisfied that I understood the implications of this situation, of this apparently incriminating discovery

"Well, I can't argue with that," I chuckled, my dismay giving way to incredulity. "That's exactly why I would never sabotage a locker and leave my _English_ assignment in it." Who could have done this? Who could have gotten their hands on my half-eaten English assignment!? Who _would_ have done this? Who would have motive?

 _Elizabeth._

My fists tightened under the desk and my brows knit together as I stared through the glass. Though I expected to be angry-and indeed, I was-I was also oddly amused. I knew immediately that the grin that split across my face, the mirth bubbling in my chest, the strange burning at the edge of my mind-these things were not human.

I could see that this didn't sit well with Principal Hall, but I could hardly find it in myself to care. "It doesn't _have_ to make sense!" she yelled, slapping her hands down on the desk. My eyes flit down to her white knuckles, how they shook as she gripped at the edge of the desk. Even if she was really that angry, there was an abnormal instability evident in the widening of her eyes, the twitch of her thin lips that might have frightened me, had I not felt so radically unstable myself. "I've waited since the day you walked into this school for you to make a mistake, and you finally have. You can _not_ talk your way out of this-I won't give you the chance this time. Your conceited, self-righteous, corpse-loving, grammar nazi routine has been a thorn in my side for too long! I don't care why you did it! I don't care _if_ you did it!" She sneered, her wily gaze trailing downwards in resignation. "It ends today. Elizabeth Jonas and a few of her friends _saw_ you tamper with the lock. That's all I need to suspend you for the rest of the term."

Well.

For several moments, I sat quietly, forcing myself to dispel my instinctual desire for violence. I was really starting to scare myself with this stuff.

"Number one," I began, my voice deathly solemn, "I did nothing to your precious factory-made doll of a daughter. Number two, I've never claimed to be righteous, and I think _you're_ the reigning authority on being conceited, here. Number three, I don't have a sexual attraction to decomposing bodies. That's disgusting. And, might I add, it's quite unprofessional of you to seek wisdom in the rumors of schoolchildren. Number four, Elizabeth and her pack of prostitutes are lying, which is so obvious that it's only a testament to your idiocy that you would even consider trusting them as witnesses. And number five. I understand that you don't care about justice. You're nothing special, you know-just like the rest of humanity: blithering, self-centered, mindless zombies only interested on how the world affects _them._ You all wander around aimlessly, purposelessly, achieving nothing productive whatsoever in the span of your tiny lives. Yes, that's you: looking at the world through tinted glass, perceiving the universe however it's convenient instead of seeking the truth. You don't _deserve_ to exist, at least not in the same world that those of us who can see past our own reflections do. You should be ' _suspended'_ from your miserable _life,_ instead of CONTINUING TO OBSTRUCT _JUSTICE_ AND POISON THE _GENE POOL!"_

I was expelled.

I also had to pay to replace her desk; I smashed my fists into it and it shattered.

And, additionally, I may or may not have been dragged out of her office by armed security guards. Why does my principal have armed security guards? I don't know. She's rich.

My mother was called to pick me up, and I managed to contain my ballistic rage all the way home. Fortunately, she was too busy contemplating if she would sentence me to death to say a word to me. As the car screeched to a halt in our driveway, I silently removed myself from it and stalked inside, calmly executing every step until I was safely isolated behind the comforting click of my bedroom door.

That's the last thing I remember.


	5. 5-Sub-par Spaghetti

I awoke to a steady, pounding rhythm, its origin uncertain. Within a few seconds, I groaned upon deciphering its source.

It was the throbbing pain in my head.

Gradually, I rose from my bed, shaking broken shards of what had once been my lamp from my hair and exposed wings. My cheeks felt as if they'd been seared with a hot iron, and as I stumbled to my feet, the agony in my head concentrated in my left temple. A concussion? Probably.

With great trepidation, my eyes creaked open to assess the damage I had wreaked this time.

There was an enormous dent in my wooden floor, there were gaping slices in my walls, glass was scattered in abundance, and a chunk was missing from my closet door. Also, my shirt had been ripped in half and gleaming feather blades were littered about, jutting out of the walls and furniture and even ceiling at awkward angles. Notably enough, whatever feathers I was missing had apparently grown back during my short slumber.

Silently thanking whichever powers be that apparently no one had entered my room while I was unconscious, I launched the reconstruction of my obliterated surroundings, beginning with rearranging my posters to conveniently cover what disaster areas I could manage. An hour and a half later, no signs of trauma were visible to the average eye, my wings were safely tucked away behind a fresh vest and shirt, and the jagged feathers were stored in the heart of my video game stash. After all, I couldn't simply throw them away-they would turn any trash bag to ribbons in a matter of seconds.

Upon glancing in the mirror, I discovered that the burning pain in my face was the result of rather impressive claw marks running down my cheeks. Fortunately, I could blame them on my melodramatic cat, Master Chief. What? I forgot to mention that I had a cat? Trust me, you weren't missing much. It's evil.

Noting that it was now 5:00 PM, I positioned my trusty fedora in such a way that the nasty bruise forming on my temple was concealed, and braced my hand against the doorknob. I took a deep breath.

Cautiously, I exited my recently...redecorated bedroom and slunk into the dining room. Upon entering, I mentally froze everything so I could assess my family's reactions.

Clarissa's expression seemed to read, 'RIP you. Haha.'

My mother's? 'What happened to your _face?!'_

Xavier's: 'If you die, can I have your spaghetti?'

Rolling my stormy eyes at these thoughts, I took a seat before the plate that had clearly been set out for me and began to eat my mother's tolerable-at-best cooking. I was very conscious of the fact that no one else resumed eating and continued to stare at me instead.

After about a third of my spaghetti was gone, my mother finally confirmed my previous interpretation of her countenance, hesitantly breaking the silence to do so. "D-did Chief...?"

I nodded at the mention of the vile creature. That thing has always hated me; the lie was quite plausible.

Another awkward pause later, my slightly materialistic sister piped up: "So...Elizabeth told me about you getting expelled. She told a lot of people, actually..."

I choked on a halfway-decent meatball. "You talk to _Elizabeth!?"_

Clarissa shrugged. "Not usually. She was pretty eager to tell me about your heinous crimes, though."

I growled under my breath. "It's not true. I did nothing to Jaina or to anyone else."

My mother shot me a sideways glance. "You called your principal a self-obsessed bigot and accused her of contributing to the downfall of society."

"And you always taught me to be truthful," I countered, narrowing my eyes.

"Did you really mean all of that?" asked my wide-eyed little brother. "Do you really think think of your principal like that?"

Irritated by his redundancy, I glared down at him. "I struggle to name a person I detest more."

"What about me?"

I weighed his proposal on the scales of my mind. "No. She's worse."

"Whoa," he whispered, too awestruck to continue eating.

"Well," my mother interjected, commanding my attention once again, "I've decided being expelled, _and_ grounded, is pretty much enough of a consequence."

I labored to dissimulate my relief, fearing that her awareness of it could only lead to her reevaluation of this decision.

"However..."

 _Rats._

"As you know, next week we will be travelling as a family to Alaska to visit my sister. I had arranged for Uncle Smith to housesit for us, but he...he left town again, a few days ago." Something about her tone had become ominous, and I knew better than to question her words. We all knew that my father's close friend Smith had a shadowed past, and he would occasionally vanish for months on end, on the run from the ghosts that haunted him still. In any case, it was _not_ a matter to be discussed, especially in front of Xavier.

As if to dispel dark thoughts, my mother shuddered and proceeded. "Anyways, someone has to watch the house, and in light of today's events, that someone will be you. You won't be visiting your aunt with us."

"Old hag doesn't even like me," I muttered.

"What?"

"I said, 'Oh, have you thought about my safety?'"

A long pause, in which my mother considered whether or not I was only as honest as I professed to be when it served my intentions, ensued.

"Y-yeah," she replied at last, squinting ever so slightly. "Yeah, of course I did. You won't be staying alone. I made a few calls before dinner and arranged for a friend to stay with you, at least before and after school."

"Safety in numbers," Xavier recited, probably quoting a teacher.

"It's about quality, not quantity," Clarissa chimed, ever the devil's least intelligent advocate.

"Which friend?" I queried, smothering my enthusiasm in false nonchalance. Being left alone at your house for two weeks with one of your friends? Who taught my mother how to punish people!? "Is it James?"

My mother's jaw tightened. "One of your _trustworthy_ friends."

I'd always found it hilarious that my mother absolutely detests James. He, Clarissa, and I have been hanging out since they were in third grade, and I in second. I suppose my mother had begun striving to keep us away from him since he gave me Grand Theft Auto V for my twelfth birthday. (She _is_ a stickler about video game ratings, isn't she?)

"Katherine will be staying with you," my mother answered at long last.

Ah, Katherine Kaos, how I adore her. I believe you've met.

Internally laughing at the irony of my mother perceiving Kaos, the poster-child of apathy, cynicism, and self-deprecation, as a positive influence on me, I responded with a simple, "Very well."

Another lengthy silence.

"So..." Xavier started, the rusty little gears in his head groaning as they scratched against each other, "You...don't have to go to school anymore, right?"

Annoyed by his lack of intellect, I rolled my eyes and confirmed his witless question with a, "Yes, Einstein. And the sky is still blue, if you were wondering."

"Naw dip, Sherlock."

"Shut _up,_ Watson!"

Blinking at me, he took a moment before resuming. "Aaaaaaaaaaaanyways. You did something bad, and now you get to stay home, right?"

"Revision: Elizabeth Jonas did something bad, and now I am _required_ to stay home," I grumbled bitterly . It wasn't that I would miss the horrors of high school so much as it was the blaring injustice of the matter, not to mention that thinking of Elizabeth was inherently bothersome to begin with. And now, I'd be forced to either find another school within my county to attend or receive a GED instead of a diploma.

Xavier's little nose wrinkled up in confusion. "But I do bad stuff all the time! And _I_ still have to go to stinkin' school."

"Well," I mused, stroking my chin as if there was a goatee there, "You're seven. And you've never dumped paint on the child of your principal."

The boy gasped, his beady eyes widening to twice their regular size. "I know what I'm doing tomorrow!"

"This is stupid," voiced Clarissa, propping her chin up in one hand. "Principal Hall can't expel you just because she doesn't like you."

"No," admitted my mother casually, feigning scrutiny of a piece of mediocre-tasting garlic bread, "but she can for threatening her and destroying her desk."

Glaring to the side, I scoffed and took a sip of milk.

"Hey, that reminds me," Clarissa reflected, "she's trying to pin that vandalism from last week on you, too. Crazy, right?"

I laughed a bit too loudly. "Preposterous!"

"Hey mom?" Xavier interrupted, pushing his empty plate away. "Do we have any paint?"

"In the office closet, behind the extra printing paper," she sighed distractedly, rubbing her eyes. A gleeful tint in his gaze, the malevolent child dashed away to concoct his diabolical plan.

"It's kind of crazy," my mother murmured, perhaps engrossed in thought. "That woman cares for her kid more than you care for your hat."

"Not possible," I dismissed immediately.

"What do you think would have happened if Elizabeth had covered your _hat_ in green paint instead of Jaina?"

Electing to ignore the disgusting example of unclear pronoun reference that had just come out of my sister's mouth, I legitimately considered this.

"I can't be certain," I explained, taking another drink of milk, "but I would definitely _deserve_ to be expelled afterwards."

They chuckled, and I did as well. I can't speak for them, but what amused _me_ was that they thought I was _kidding_.

Though it may have seemed a trivial, material object to most, that hat meant the universe to me. It was my only remnant of my life before I was adopted all those years ago, and my only connection to the memories I had lost. In fact, my very first memory was nothing more than the strong sense that I had one job, and that was to keep the hat safe. (Yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds, but in my defense, I was seven at the time.) That's how they found me-clutching it for dear life and sobbing in a utility closet, covered in blood that was not my own and that did not match the DNA of anyone they had on record. I could remember nothing of my early years, hypothetically due to trauma-induced amnesia. Regardless of how I have worked to emotionally detach myself from those first, few memories, spiked with terror and confusion as they were, I had never been able to shake the sense of obligation I felt to the fedora, as if I swore on my life to someone I loved that I would keep it safe from harm. It must have been a psychological connection made by my horrified, seven-year-old brain.

Thinking back on it, I was rather perplexed about how those who had found me had neglected to notice the giant, jagged, blue, reptilian _wings_ sticking out of my back. Alternately, if they _had_ discovered them, they had certainly taken great care to keep them secret; but why? And what would have happened to me if they hadn't? These were only a few of the great mysteries in my life, fueled by my supernatural appendages and hazy recollections that lingered on the edge of my mind, just out of reach.

I pondered over these mysteries and over what exactly would happen to anyone who would dare to desecrate my fedora. Too much had been taken away from me: my biological parents, my memories, my chance at an ordinary life, my father, and now my education. I would not allow anyone, _especially_ Elizabeth, to take my most sentimental possession from me.

Speaking of Elizabeth...

I _was_ curious to know how she managed to set up such a complex scheme with that tiny brain of hers. I was beginning to wonder if I should confront her, if only to sate my curiosity. And of course, as much as I recognized how generally uncivilized and uncalled for violence usually was, I was more than prepared to kick her from here to next week, should that need arise.


End file.
